Harry in Flight
by LynstHolin
Summary: AU NON-MAGICAL DRARRY FLUFF Rookie football player Harry Potter is very attracted to the blond steward on the private jet his team has rented. Short and light.


Written for a 'non-magical Drarry' contest on deviantART.

Contains mild suggestive references.

...

"Hello, my name is Drake, and I will be your steward for this flight."

Harry gaped at the blond man that greeted him at the top of the Airstairs. He was _perfect_. Tall, cheekbones that could cut glass, and smoke-colored eyes. Harry had to have a muscular physique, being a football player, but the build he found most attractive was what many considered too thin; he was sure that beneath the perfectly-cut navy blue suit was just the sort of ultra-slim, lithe body that he liked. Drake appeared to be around the same age as Harry (still a boy, really), but he had the smooth, sophisticated demeanor of an older man.

Harry had taken the soft, well-manicured hand that the steward had offered. When Drake delicately cleared his throat, Harry realized that he had been holding it for the last fifteen seconds. "Oh. Sorry." He reluctantly let go and went to sit down. Oliver Wood waved him to a seat next to his. "What are you smirking about?"

Oliver grinned cheekily. "You. He's your type, eh?"

"It was that obvious?"

"Yeah."

"Would you like something from our bar?" a voice said.

Harry jumped. Drake was at his elbow. "What have you got?"

The steward rattled off a list of things Harry didn't recognize. His family was all beer-drinkers, and he waited for the names Foster's or Beck's to come up, but all he heard was a bunch of Frenchified gabble that his father would dismiss as 'foo-foo'. Finally, he just said, "That one."

"The Sancerre blanc?"

"Yeah, um, that's a good one."

"It's quite dry."

"I like dry. Dry is good." He watched the steward walk away, eyes riveted to the lower half of the navy suit-coat.

"Do you even know what dry means?" Oliver asked. "You don't, do you?"

"Sure I do." No, he did not.

Drake came back with a trolley full of drinks; Harry scanned it, but didn't see anything that looked like a beer. "Here you go, sir." Harry was given a glass of white wine. He _hated _wine. But, noticing the steward looking at him, he took a deep swig. It took all his willpower not to spit it back out. He wasn't sure, exactly, what the meaning of 'dry' was, but he was starting to suspect that it meant 'makes the insides of your mouth shrivel up'. When he noticed Drake raising an eyebrow, he swallowed. "Is it to your satisfaction, sir?"

Harry wasn't sure if he really detected a hint of amusement in that simple question. "Yeah, yeah. Grand." He wondered if he could sneak to the toilet and dump the rest.

"Drink all of it," Oliver ordered. "You need to relax."

Drake came around again in twenty minutes and gave Harry a full glass to replace his empty one. The steward was turning to attend to another team member when Harry blurted out, "I'm the newest player for Puddlemere United. Do you like football?"

"Good for you. I'm afraid that I don't follow football."

"Oh, Harry," Oliver said pityingly as the steward walked away pushing the drinks trolley. "He's a steward on a private jet that gets rented by rock stars, sheiks, and the Prime Minister himself, and you think he's going to be impressed by a rookie footballer? Surrounded by other, non-rookie footballers, I might add." What Oliver didn't add was that he, Oliver Wood, was the most famous man currently on the plane.

Twenty minutes later, Harry had an empty glass again. When Drake came around to give him a replacement, Harry said to him, "The Potter in Potter-Black Casual Wear, that's my dad. You should come round. I could set you up with some gladrags."

"Interesting," Drake replied politely, "but I've never shopped there."

Oliver had his head in his hands. "What's your problem?" Harry sniped.

"Oh, Harry, no! That was so wrong!"

"What? That sort of thing works for Flint, doesn't it?"

"Yeah, well, Flint likes orange-skinned strippers with ridiculous boob-jobs. This Drake is _quality_. Like my Adelina." Of course, Oliver had to mention his wife. He was positively mad about her.

When Drake came around again with the trolley, Harry was feeling a bit warm and fuzzy. "Hey, I'd like to join the Mile High Club," he said, trying on his most winning grin.

The steward's face stayed expressionless. "We don't offer that service, sir. Sorry."

When Drake went to give Harry another glass of wine, Oliver reached over and blocked with his hand. "No more for him, thanks."

A hint of a smile played on Drake's lips. "If you say so, sir."

As soon as the blond man's back was turned, Oliver smacked Harry on top of the head. "_Ow_!"

"You're a virgin, aren't you? Only a virgin could think that would work."

Harry glared. "So what if I am? I almost did it once!"

"And, I assume, it was 'almost' because you said something completely asinine and blew your chances with that person forever."

Harry opened his mouth to retort angrily, then shut it again. Was Oliver saying that he had completely mucked up any chance that he had with Drake? "How- how did you get Adelina?"

"I was myself, and I talked to her like she was a human being, not like she was some sort of vending machine that would drop some sex out if I used the right combination of words." Oliver adjusted his seat so he was laying nearly prone. "I need a nap. Watching you bollocks things up so badly is exhausting."

Harry had lots of quiet time to think, and to realize what an arse he had been.

...

There was only half an hour left of the flight. It was now or never. Harry walked up behind Drake in an alcove where the steward was stuffing dirty napkins into a bin and cleared his throat. Drake's eyes widened momentarily and, cursing himself for being an idiot, Harry backed up so the other man wouldn't feel trapped. "I- I just want to apologize. I'm not good at dealing with... people I'm attracted to. I mean, the more attracted I am to someone, the more stupid I get."

"So, you're very, very attracted to me?"

Harry got the feeling that Drake was working hard to keep a straight face. "Um, yeah. Um. You're really good-looking, like. And skinny." Drake raised both eyebrows. "Um, I mean, in a good way! I like skinny! And, uh, you're so... like, mature. And you dress nice. And your hair looks soft. And you smell good. And..." Harry found himself short of breath.

"Is there anything else?" Those gorgeous gray eyes crinkled a bit at the corners.

"_Willyougooutwithme_?"

Drake allowed a small smile to appear on his face as he tilted his head. "I'll think about it. Now, the plane is going to land soon. You'd best get to your seat and strap yourself in."

Face burning, Harry obeyed. _I blew it sky-high, _Harry thought dolefully. The best-looking man Harry had ever seen in the flesh thought he was a complete and utter fool. An _undateable _fool.

The plane landed and the Airstairs were let down. Drake stood by the door shaking hands and saying good-bye to all of the passengers. "I hope you enjoyed your experience with Malfair." Harry couldn't read the blond man's expression, but his heart thudded when he felt a folded piece of paper pressed into his hand.

Harry waited until he was in the airport's first class lounge before he dared to read the note, leaving a few barstools between him and the other patrons. He lifted the top flap, but, instead of numbers, there were words written in neat cursive: 'By the way, my father owns the company that your team rented the plane from.' Oh, _bloody hell_. He should have guessed; Drake's resemblance to the famous millionaire Lucius Malfoy was obvious. _Well, that's that. I had no idea just how big of a moron I was being. I don't have the ghost of a chance with Drake now_. Still, Harry folded down the bottom flap- and was elated all over again when he saw the line of digits.


End file.
